Shopping With Sherlock
by iolre
Summary: John takes Sherlock grocery shopping for the first (and probably last) time. Thankfully, after a chat with Greg, John comes prepared...mostly.


A/N: Anonymous prompt from my tumblr! I tried to have fun with this. Enjoy!

Full prompt is: _For once, Sherlock actually goes grocery shopping with John. John finds out the reason why Sherlock doesn't usually go grocery shopping._

* * *

"Boring."

"I don't fucking care if you find it boring, you annoying git. You blew up the refrigerator. You blew up. The refrigerator. If you come with me to get more groceries, I only have to make one trip." John planted his legs, preparing to tackle his boyfriend if he had to.

"Until you get into a row with the chip-and-pin machine again." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John scowled.

"It's not that big of a deal, Sherlock. Just one trip." John thought for a few seconds. "No sex for two weeks if you don't get ready in the next five seconds."

"You wouldn't."

"Five..." John was incredibly pleased to see Sherlock throw himself off the couch and grab his Belstaff from where it was hanging by the door. He rarely had to pull that trick but after the first time he had followed through on that threat (and dealt with an extremely petulant Sherlock), Sherlock listened. Not that John really enjoyed that threat. Listening to two weeks of Sherlock loudly (and graphically) deducing the sex life of everyone who walked by was a bit much for any normal person. Even by John's standards it was pushing it, especially since he had to provide Sherlock's security detail. Grabbing the grocery list from the slightly scorched table, he pocketed it and made sure the flat was as neat and tidy as it could be in their absence. "Ready?"

Sherlock sniffed dramatically, his face haughty. John cocked an eyebrow and Sherlock strode out through the door as if it had been his plan to go all along. It was the first time John had been able to get Sherlock to come with him. He had promised Mrs. Hudson that he would try, at the very least. One of Sherlock's experiments had reacted quite unpleasantly to the cold environment of the refrigerator.

The explosion had been memorable and drawn half of the Yard. Convincing the bomb squad that it was an accident had taken far longer. True to her good nature Mrs. Hudson had agreed to have the refrigerator replaced while they went out to get new groceries. Not that Sherlock ate, but John still wanted him on the trip. It was the principle, and all that.

The walk to John's favorite shop was conducted in silence. Sherlock was sulking, then. John watched the consulting detective with a certain fondness. Stroppy though the man seemed, he saved his sweet side for John. When it suited him, anyways. Arriving at the store front, Sherlock stared skeptically at the rather plain entrance. John took the initiative, Sherlock a half-pace behind him. John gestured for Sherlock to follow him, walking to where the carts were located. It was only when John grabbed the handle and turned around to check on Sherlock that he realized that the other man was no longer behind him. Shit.

"You're a fool." Well, at least he could still hear him. John hastily turned around and drove the cart towards the sound of Sherlock's voice. Sherlock was berating the shop boy for his various shortcomings - his failed love life, his inability to properly stack cans of soup -

"Sherlock!" John half-shouted. "What are you doing?"

"This simpleton refuses to show me to the milk!" Sherlock turned his indignant eyes in John's direction. "I didn't realize it was such a complex problem."

Counting to ten backwards in his head brought John to the point he could speak without wanting to punch his boyfriend. "It's not his job, Sherlock," he told him patiently. "You don't need this poor man to show you around."

"How else do you find anything?" Sherlock blinked, genuinely puzzled. "The labels are horrendously placed. For example, that label for that aisle says crisps first, but there is clearly candy closer to the entrance of the aisle. There is also a case of beer that does not belong there."

"I'm sorry," john told the clerk apologetically. He grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and towed him away, dragging the cart with his free hand. "Bit not good, you know."

Sherlock eyed him quizzically. "What is it like in your funny little heads?" John's fingers twitched, wanting to go for the handcuffs he had hidden in the back of his trousers. He and Greg had met at the pub the night before and the Detective Inspector had told him about the first and last time he had attempted to drag Sherlock grocery shopping. With how much Lestrade had drank John assumed he must have been exaggerating, but he figured the handcuffs couldn't hurt. At this rate he was going to have to use them to keep Sherlock from being assaulted.

"Follow me," John told him authoritatively. This time he did better at keeping Sherlock in view, although the man's eyes were darting everywhere at once, seeing everything. They arrived at the milk and John grabbed two containers, sticking them in the cart. As soon as he turned around he noticed that Sherlock was gone. John sighed. No wonder he never went grocery shopping. The 30-something year old man was more work than a child.

There was a shriek a couple rows down and John dutifully trundled in that direction, pausing to grab some of his favorite soup from the end display. He was not at all surprised to see Sherlock standing against the shelves, a rapidly fading pink handprint on his face. The short, brown-haired woman standing in front of him was glaring furiously at him. She pointed a finger in Sherlock's face and scolded him in a language John didn't recognise - French, maybe. "What did you do now?" he asked Sherlock patiently. The woman turned to glare at John and he offered her a wide, non-threatening smile, attempting to diffuse some of the tension. She shouted something at Sherlock that was probably horribly offensive before turning on her heels and storming off.

Sherlock dusted himself off, looking like a mildly offended cat whose cream had been taken away from him. "Obvious, John. Her husband's cheating on her and two of the three children she's adopted were from his mistresses."

"Of course you speak French." John shook his head, half-wondering how he had expected anything different. "I can't leave you alone for five seconds, can I?"

"I'm not a child, John," Sherlock snapped.

"No, of course not," John agreed. Sherlock eyed him, suspicious. "You're far worse."

"I am not." Sherlock attempted to scowl and instead looked like a petulant child. John stifled a chuckle, watching Sherlock dart off to the left.

"Bread is this way." John inclined his head to the right, nearly tripping over Sherlock as he quickly shifted direction. "Oi! Some warning, you prat!"

"Not my fault your tiny little brain can't keep up with my superior intellect," Sherlock scoffed. John stopped, waiting, and watched as Sherlock took a few more steps and then came to a halt, turning back to face him. "What?"

"You're a nightmare in the shop, you know that?" John asked him affably.

"It is not my fault that you are all too simple-minded to appreciate my methodology. If you had listened to me, we would have been done already." Sherlock looked pointedly John, as it was obviously his fault.

"Indeed." John grabbed some cans of baked beans off of the shelf as they passed. "Or we would be sitting in the back of Greg's police car after someone attacked you. Again."

"It is not my fault that they obviously do not appreciate my observations." Sherlock crossed his arms in a huff, standing a few feet away from John. The military doctor regarded him for a few seconds and then lifted an eyebrow. "Yes, well." Sherlock scuffed the floor with his foot. "The list, John."

"You are not getting my shopping list." John looked at it, memorising the contents, and then tucked it firmly into his trouser pocket.

"You are aware that placing that piece of paper in your trousers is in no way going to deter me from retrieving it, correct?" Sherlock stepped closer, into John's personal space. John couldn't help but shift slightly until they were nearly chest-to-chest. One hand was on Sherlock's chest (a distraction), the other going for the handcuffs in his back pocket. It was now or never.

"Sherlock," John breathed, looking from his eyes to his lips. He lifted up onto his toes - just another inch, now unfurl and... Quickly he snapped the handcuffs onto Sherlock's wrist and onto the cart, closing them before Sherlock could react. Sherlock blinked, startled by the sudden movement. Realizing what had happened he narrowed his eyes. John knew he was going to be in a lot of trouble when they returned to the flat (not that he minded - Sherlock's form of punishment was quite nice [eventually]), but for now he hoped he could at least finish shopping in relative peace.

With his left hand bound to the cart, a surly Sherlock had to stay close or risk chafing from the handcuff. He had also decided that apparently he wasn't going to wait until they got home to enact his revenge. As John continued going through the items on their grocery list, Sherlock brushed closer, trailing fingers along the nape of John's neck, slipping long fingers underneath the top of the band of his trousers, and essentially driving John insane. John had been staring intently at a display of crisps, pondering which one he might be able to get Sherlock to eat, when he felt a firm hand grasp his arse and squeeze the muscle firmly. He did not squeak. He most definitely did not.

Maybe a little.

"Damnit," John swore. Sherlock was standing next to the cart, his face radiating innocence. John glared at him, exasperated. "I'm never taking you shopping again." The look on Sherlock's face was so pleased that John nearly strangled him then and there. "Bastard."

"Language like that is for the inarticulate, John," Sherlock admonished, walking along next to his boyfriend.

"Fucking buggery fuck, you sneaky rat bastard."

"Now, now, John. There are children here."

"Oh, shut it, you wanker." John unloaded the groceries and made it through the chip and pin machine without any violent arguments. The food was in its plastic sacks and they were standing near the exit. John was mentally running through the list in his head, pleased to discover that they had gotten everything he had on his list. Eventually.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was rather subdued, all things considered, and John looked at him, somewhat concerned.

"Yeah, love?"

"You did remember to get the handcuff keys from Lestrade...didn't you?"

"Fuck."

"I'll take that as a no."


End file.
